


for that moment, i was never what i am

by Anonymous



Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, M/M, i guess its not like....the MOST angsty, i mention some of the others but theyre kind of irrelevant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-20
Updated: 2019-11-20
Packaged: 2021-02-13 18:30:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,314
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21498580
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: prodigal: (noun) a person who leaves home and behaves recklessly, but later makes a repentant return
Relationships: Pierre Gasly/Charles Leclerc
Comments: 5
Kudos: 56
Collections: Anonymous





	for that moment, i was never what i am

**Author's Note:**

> fully and totally inspired by Toro Rosso referring to Pierre as the prodigal son...which cut me straight to the core. like...wow that shit HURTS and their entire article about it was like "we really love pierre and were very proud of him" yall were out to hurt me huh?  
also titled "coast writes another Gasly redemption arc" because i just can't bear for him to have a bad ending.  
but anyways. this is....kinda experimental? me trying a slightly different and less technical writing style? its fragmented but uh yeah hope it all makes sense. i wrote it all out of order lol, plus the characterizations...idk how im feeling about em yet  
title is from next year by two door cinema club  
as always, this is a work of PURE FICTION and in no way intends to potray reality. please don't share this off of ao3 without my permission, thanks!

Charles has always been good at watching.

His parents and brothers used to tease him for it- say he should stop staring so much and ask a few less questions to random strangers, imply that one day he was going to learn something he shouldn't. He's never really taken their statements to heart- curiousity is the basis of knowledge, he thinks, and as it turns out, observance is one of the best things he's ever known in himself.

His watchful eye comes in particularly handy with Pierre- Pierre, who he's known since both their ages were single digit, who speaks soft French to him in the paddock and the bedroom alike, Pierre who can write entire symphonies out of repressed emotion in hid own head without uttering a word. He's long been good at reading Pierre, even before they got into F1 and their relationship became that of more than friends, but in their secret worlds, torn apart on race weekends where they must act as rivals, daytime friends and nighttime lovers, it comes in especially handy.

When it seems that shit first starts to go south and Pierre comes home from his sim runs in Milton Keynes after a week of testing in Barcelona looking tense and tight lipped, Charles knows better than to pry. He watches Pierre's familiar movements across the tiled floor of their apartment with a careful eye, notes what seems off. Reaches out to Pierre when he's finally cooled down enough to see out of the tunnel that began to encase his vision and lets the Frenchman cling to him and speak when the river flooding his head finally runs dry.

"They're already upset with me because of the crashes, Charles. I don't know if I can do this. I'm no Daniel."

And Charles lets the words sink into his own skin, hates the way they make him itch. Pierre has always been good, in every possible way. Pierre has always deserved better. Yet here he is, finally recieving but incapable of wielding the tools to show the world his talents. It's frustrating for them both, but it's not like Charles can be in the car with him. He can only offer familiar touch, a gentle caress to ease Pierre, and his own hollow words.

"It'll be okay, Pierre. You'll figure it out. It'll get better soon."

Charles never thought himself a liar, but when he watches Pierre struggle from the safety of his own scarlet red team, watches Pierre fail to improve on tracks he dominated in the past in a weaker car, he feels pretty damn sleezy.

It doesn't help that Pierre grows more withdrawn and internally distraught with every race- speaking the same meaningless words about analysis to the press, pretending like it'll all come together soon to his mechanics and race engineer, and then going back to his hotel feeling virtually empty, even as Max's side of the garage is out celebrating, and he's been invited. 

"I don't know what I'm doing wrong," Pierre whispers to cold air in their hotel room in Hungary, and Charles doesn't know, either. All of his watching, and he still feels helpless as Pierre slips further down the slope, creeping dangerously close to a personal rock bottom. "Maybe I shouldn't even be in the seat," he muses, and it makes Charles sick to his stomach to hear.

"Don't say that," Charles urges, dragging him close and resting his open palm against Pierre's chest to feel the familiar rhythm of a beating heart, the last constant they both have. "You deserve this."

It ends up being another of his very own poorly timed pieces of advice after Helmut calls four days later and not-so-politely lets Pierre know that Alex has been keeping his seat at Toro Rosso warm, and that his time at Red Bull is no longer needed.

At first, it doesn't even take an ounce of careful observance to see the devastation it does on Pierre's very existence- he doesn't cry, doesn't let himself even after Charles finds him in the bathroom of their apartment, head between his knees and trembling with emotion, and Charles urges him over and over that _Pierre please, it's okay to let it out._ He doesn't, won't, at least not around Charles.

He blames it on the sharp knife of competitiveness that they all carry behind their back, Pierre's own deeply seated fear of being seen as weak, even around someone as familiar and trustworthy as his Charles. Charles simply does what little he can- offers himself up as a shelter, someone warm and loving who will listen whenever Pierre finally decides to talk.

He never does. He disappears into Faenza for a week, leaves Charles with their unmade bed and the creaking boards of the hardwood kitchen floors and goes home to Toro Rosso. Something happens there, Charles knows, because when Pierre comes back he embraces Charles like a born-again believer, and while he still wears that same look of sleep deprived and stressed exhaustion that's become trademark this season and has always scared Charles a bit more than he'd like to admit, he sees something twinkle in Pierre's eyes that he hasn't seen in what feels like forever- unabashed, terrified, naive hope.

Spa tears them apart- it's the first time Pierre finally cries that year, finally lets his guard down and lets Charles hold him as his body shakes with sobs. It seems like hell all in one weekend, with the whole world staring at him in his bright Toro Rosso kit, doubting he'll ever amount to anything more, and with Anthoine passing away because of the very track he has to race his heart out on the very next day. They both ache, cling to each other away from the cameras and Charles stops watching and just lets them both feel. But he is made acutely aware of something in Pierre stirring when the Frenchman goes from waking up crying to sliding the visor into place on his helmet and scoring points for his very own boys in blue.

Charles has less time to pay attention in Italy- Ferrari occupy nearly his entire weekend, from sunrise to sunfall- but after he captures his magical win and the fanfares have finally quieted down to a rowdy din, he makes time to see Pierre. The Frenchman still looks a bit wrecked, like it's taking him longer than he hoped to piece himself back together, but Charles still loves every single part of Pierre.

"I'm so proud of you," Pierre murmurs as they fall asleep in their own bed, and Charles can't help the smile that creeps across his own lips.

"Yeah, I'm proud of you too, Pierre," he whispers in reply, and Pierre just grumbles a "didn't even get to score points" right back.

But for Charles, seeing Pierre like this- the pride was never about the points. It was always something more.

And so their season continues in the same familiar way- Charles fighting in the front, and Pierre fighting in the middle- hungry for glory and redemption, respectively. Russia is a road block for them both, but Pierre seems ultimately comforted by the fact that neither of the Toro Rosso cars could find pace, and Charles feels better after he gets to yell out his anger at Sebastian in the team debrief. 

Pierre drags himself into Q3s and points finishes more often than not- and it's something astounding for Charles to see. It baffles him, Pierre's mental strength, how endlessly positive he seems even after a devastating blow to his career- brings a smile to Charles face. Of course, Pierre's slow grind towards redemption slowly brings the old version of himself out, too- the one who laughs at Charles stupid jokes carelessly, who loves his team and makes it well known, who smiles in the paddock at everyone, even his rivals. It makes something in Charles chest burn with joy when Pierre flashes him a beaming grin after the race in Suzuka, a cheeky wink- it feels like a strange sort of coming home.

Even in Mexico, when they go to sleep together on Friday and Charles wakes up on Saturday to Pierre's side of the bed empty and the awful sounds of dry heaving in the poorly insulated hotel bathroom, Pierre manages to put it all down on track. Charles knows better than to try to barge into any Red Bull team's hospitality while he's shrouded in red, but it's telling when Pierre leaves the FIA garage after Q3 looking pallid and still manages a weak smile and a thumbs up to Charles as he passes by. And when he finishes the race the next day looking only faintly green, capitalizes on his teammate's own mistakes and brings home 2 points, Charles is the first to find a private space to congratulate him. 

"Nothing ever just comes easy for you, huh?" he jokes into Pierre's ear, and the Frenchman huffs, resting as much of his own weight onto Charles as he can.

"You have no idea."

Nothing particularly spectacular happens for them again until Brazil. Charles has always known Interlagos is one of the tracks Pierre has had an affinity for, roots traced back to their lifetime fascination with the achievements of Ayrton Senna, but it seems like there's something magical happening when Pierre qualifies P7. Charles is only a little disappointed by his penalty, but it mostly all fades when Pierre catches him in the FIA garage and captures him for one armed hug.

"I fucking love Brazil," he says with a beaming smile, and reaches over to give Alex a fist bump as he passes by. Charles can't relate, but he certainly understands.

For him, it all seems to end as quickly as it began- taken out by his own teammate. He thinks that he would probably have punched Seb if not for the self restraint imposed upon him by his own team, glares with the anger of a child chastised by their mom for grabbing items inappropriately at the grocery store- but when he sees a flash of blue on screen, sees three familiar letters- GAS- creep up to second place on the screen in the Ferrari garage, he stops glaring and starts watching again. When the checkered flag finally drops and Charles remains glued, taking in every thousandth of a second until that blue car flies past in second place, he can feel tears pricking his eyes. _Pierre, you absolute fucking beauty, you've finally done it._

It almost feels like his legs can't carry him fast enough down the pit lane to parc ferme, like he's being forced to recall every single second that a cool down lap takes, ticking them off until he's sure Pierre should be there, what the hell- and then he is. Charles keeps his distance- congratulates Max and Lewis, steps back into the shadows and fixates his wandering gaze onto where Pierre is being embraced by his team over the barriers. A P2 that feels as good as a victory. Only the third podium in all of Toro Rosso's years.

He waits, like always, for Pierre to finish up with his media duties- and then Charles is there, aching for Pierre, taking in every single moment of the Frenchman's greatest day. They embrace and linger, reaching for one another a bit awkwardly, unwilling to break the physical link between each other but equally as unwilling to be seen as anything but friends in the prying eyes of the public.

"That was amazing," Charles manages, hooking his chin over Pierre's shoulder. The Frenchman's eyes are shining- and, for the first time in forever, Charles notices that he doesn't have bags under them.

"Merci, merci," Pierre mumbles, like he can't get anything else out of the broad smile gaping across his lips, "I'll see you soon," he finishes, grabbing at Charles arm once more before turning to find the team that gave him their everything. 

And so there he celebrates, Toro Rosso's very own prodigal son, once wayward and unsure and now giving them his everything. What was once lost has now been found, his entire season with its operatic ups and downs finally vindicated. Pierre looks like he might cry tears of joy, looks years younger when he smiles for the cameras and pushes through them to jump into the waiting arms of the people who helped rebuild his very being from rock bottom.

The pride Charles feels is massive, intangible, bangs on the sides of his ribs like a bass drum, makes him feel dizzy with its very presence. Here is Pierre, the man he's ever loved, Pierre who has finally overcome that hulking beast in himself and everyone else and proved them all wrong. Pierre who had whispered to Charles that he felt lost only months prior, Pierre who now looks like he's finally done more than his team proud- he's done himself proud.

And Charles wants to say it, wants to barge right into the Toro Rosso garage and scream at the world how much he loves Pierre Gasly, about how obscenely proud he is, how he would give up his own seat in his beloved team of red to make the Frenchman happy. But he knows he can't, knows that not a single soul in the paddock is ready for them to step out of the dark and be seen, not even themselves-

So Charles does what he has always done best- he steps back into the rosy shadows of the Ferrari garage, where the only eyes on him are from his own mildly perturbed team, and watches, observes, catalogues every detail of Pierre's joy away so he can recall it in stormier times and remind them both of why it's spectacular to live this life. He will wait- and for Pierre, he's willing to wait forever.

**Author's Note:**

> i actually...didn't feel as unsure about this as some of my other writing. i am very passionate about pierre as TR's wayward son who has finally found home though so i guess that makes sense.  
as always, thank you for reading. any and all feedback is appreciated!


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